


Halloween

by rallamajoop



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Horror, It's really up to you, M/M, Vampires, or maybe demonic possession or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: “Are you going to shoot me, Napoleon?”





	Halloween

There’s smoke in Napoleon’s eyes. The ringing in his ears is gradually giving way to the pant of his own laboured breathing when, through the gloom, he spies movement of a different kind. He hangs in place, the knowledge that there is one more thing to be done before this is finished – before he can let his feet out from under him – the only thing holding them there.

Two bullets left in his gun and no way to know whether they’ll be enough. They’ll _have_ to be.

Even through the smoke, there’s no mistaking the impossible figure advancing towards him, slow and inexorable, as if they have all the time in the world.

“Are you going to shoot me, Napoleon?”

It’s Illya’s voice, Illya’s amused curiosity, but that isn’t Illya. Illya’s voice would have betrayed shock, disbelief – at the very least, he would have been _indignant_ at Napoleon’s gall. This Illya, this _thing _wearing Illya’s face, sounds almost indulgent, in allowing Napoleon his little fantasies about what he’s about to do.

Napoleon’s one advantage is that it doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this. He can afford to let it get closer – close enough that even his shaking hands won’t be able to miss. He can’t afford to miss.

“You’re not him,” Napoleon tells it – tells _himself. _“My friend – my friend is dead.” The sound of Illya’s name on Napoleon’s lips is so much more than this – this _thing_ – deserves.

“Aren’t I?” The quirked eyebrow is so Illya it hurts. “You had better be very sure.” The creature advances on Napoleon steadily, unhurried as the flow of time.

Just a few paces closer, Napoleon tells himself. Then he’ll be sure of his shot, smoke be damned. Just one more pace.

Illya’s hand reaches calmly forward and twists the gun cleanly out of Napoleon’s unresisting grasp. Napoleon can only blink blankly back, trying to understand how it could possibly have gotten so close without his registering.

There’s a moment where the tableau hangs like that. And then…

“Oh, _Napoleon_,” Illya murmurs, pulling Napoleon to him, wrapping him in his arms, like he’s comforting him against the wild delusion that he could ever have pulled that trigger, and Napoleon – god help him, but Napoleon lets him. “Shooting me? Really?”

Napoleon has no answer; it’s all he can do to press his face into Illya’s shoulder and hug back, even as Illya speaks again and his blood turns to ice, “Did you really imagine mere _bullets_ could hurt me, now?”


End file.
